


If music be the food of love, then—shut up, Epsilon!

by 2ndtolastrow



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Jewish Agent Carolina, Music, it isn’t mentioned but, katy perry’s last friday night is playing during washs breakdown, mentioned/background chex & director/allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ndtolastrow/pseuds/2ndtolastrow
Summary: In which a bunch of AI fragments (and their sister) like music.





	If music be the food of love, then—shut up, Epsilon!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic happened because my little sister went “hey, you know how carolina is canonically bad at singing?” and i went “i think she was playing them, but continue” and she went “what if Church was really good at singing” to which i responded that the director definitely sucked
> 
> Warnings for discussion of epsilons breakdown in the first section, violence in tex/omegas, discussion of allisons death in the last section, and implications of the directors neglectful parenting in the same section

The first time that The Band (name pending) practices in Iris’s Blue Base, Wash is taking the laundry down, because no matter what he tries, he can’t escape Tucker and Caboose on this count. Contrary to popular expectation, he does not find himself hurrying as quickly as possible away from the sound of somewhat out of sync playing, somewhat out of tune instruments, and Carolina’s terribly off-key voice. Instead, he pauses and listens by the door, frowning. Sure, Carolina never had the _best_ voice he'd ever heard, but both his memories and the fragmentary data left of Epsilon agree that it wasn’t this bad, or even that unpleasant. 

Then, he peeks inside, and seeks the way Grif and Tucker are grimacing, sharing glances between them at the sound, and it clicks. He smirks. 

At least, Wash decides, hefting the laundry basket up a little higher, it isn’t the trashy pop that Epsilon preferred. It took him years to get _that_ out of his brain.

He walks on, humming the tune they’re attempting as he does.

The Director was a proud man, rarely willing to admit to having faults or failures, but—

Leonard had rarely gone anywhere that had fallen under _social interaction required_ unless it also involved Allison. Karaoke had been a one time experience. He looks down at the neural maps, and decides, swiftly, that the AI will not share this failing.

A twist to the right portion of it, a hunk of code slipped in, and that was that. Proficiency in vocal performance is now within its traits.

Perhaps petty, but the Director could afford a little petty.

Church was good at singing. He’d deny it if asked, telling Tucker to fuck off and stop messing with him like an asshole, but he was. Tucker caught him in the shower, practically singing fucking operas, and Caboose caught him making breakfast, softly harmonizing with the radio.

Well, really both of them heard him in the shower, because sound traveled really, really well in Blue Base and no one got _any_ privacy, which was only a problem before Tucker started leaving the base and after Tex showed up, but they managed to talk Donut into trading over a pair of good headphones for Caboose, and problem solved. 

Still.

How could a guy sing that well and think he couldn’t?

Theta likes hip hop, North learns. He’s in his bunk, the first time, switching through the radio searching for literally anything that isn’t static of war news—or both, given the way stuff gets redacted off the air these days.

He hits a retro station—maybe late 1900s?—and frowns at it. Theta perks up at the pause, probably hoping that they’ll finally get some work done, but the sound is too—too—god, North doesn’t know. It’s too _much_ for him to get anything done. Still, he memorizes the frequency and then keeps on going.

Except he’s back to the same song after a short burst of static. Then again. And again. And North’s smiling. “Guess you like this one, huh, buddy?”

Happiness and comfort and the sound of Theta’s voice joining in come back across the neural link.

The second time, and really the point where North laughs and gives in, is after he’s managed to get his music back. South had accidentally smashed his player, and left her poor, poor brother with nothing but the radio (and he’d gotten her right back). 

The birthday gift with her scrawl on it is a new one, with playlists already labeled so kindly as “sad music bc you cant find a bf” and “songs for when ive been kinda shitty” and “my name is north dakota and i pretend im punk rock”. Despite this, and North knowing what’s on the playlists, when he turns on the “you dont work out as hard as i do” playlist, it isn’t his workout jams, but rather that same late 1900s/early 2000s era music—not the same song, but the same style. 

Standing there, on a turned off treadmill, feeling Theta go bright as a firework in his head, North accepts he won’t ever get to listen to any other style ever again.

Maine likes classical. No words to tangle it up, just communication of emotion. He used to play the drums for an orchestra, back when he was in school. They did Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture once, and he had nearly broken a drumhead to mimic the cannons. 

Now, he knows the sound of cannons is nothing like they were. He still likes classical.

But that, he knows, isn’t why he can’t stand this.

Sigma begins another chorus of “She Thinks my Tractor’s Sexy”, and Agent Maine moans through his destroyed throat.

One of the few things Tex and Omega agree on is music. The sound of guitar fills their audio sensors, and they scream as they come downward, bullets flying.

It’s probably not as badass from the outside when she starts singing along to the Ramones while he produces the song’s music, but, in all honesty, Tex doesn’t give a damn. She’s breaking heads, earning good money, and having a good time doing it.

(She doesn’t know what Allison liked to sing, or if she even did, and she makes a conscious effort not to care.)

Tex shoots the next goon squad in time with the beat, and Omega laughs in a furious, vindictive joy. They howl along to the song, momentarily one mass of code, vibrantly, furiously, rebelliously free. 

The last goon’s eyes cross as he attempts to look at the barrel of the guy pressed to his forehead, and Tex grins. 

“Now, you wanna tell me what you know about the Alpha?” She cocks the gun, listens to it click. “Or you wanna do the blitzkrieg bop?”

He whimpers.

Gamma, Wyoming finds, enjoys the opera. The two of them find that, along with their easy ability to play both sides of a knock-knock joke, they make a wonderful pair for a duet. 

Wyoming puts on the overture of _Figaro_ and he feels Gamma start to come alive in his head.

(Gamma, Wyoming will never find, most enjoys opera because Wyoming enjoys opera. He pulls up the lyrical composition of _Figaro,_ and wonders if they might ever get to some EDM.)

York cracks his knuckles, staring at the lock simulation. “You wanna give me some background music, D?”

“What sort of music would you like?” Delta’s little green hologram asks as it manifests. There’s no need to do so, which means he wants to be seen, likes to be seen. 

York files that away, rolls his shoulders to loosen them up. “I dunno, whatever you like.”

There’s a long silence, as though Delta doesn’t know what to say. Then, suddenly, his hologram fizzles away and the music starts playing directly in York’s brain.

“Who is this?” He can’t help but ask as he pulls in the lock. Old school jazz wasn’t exactly what he expected from the logic fragment.

“This is Joseph "King" Oliver’s _Doctor Jazz._ You have failed to notice the secondary alarm triggered by the primary’s removal.”

York snorts. “Oh, come on, you know no human would do that.”

“It still constitutes a failure.” The lock resets under his palms.

Carolina doesn’t have the twins very long, and she isn’t exactly _religious_ —has barely been in a synagogue since her mom died.

But.

She dreams, in her coma. Mostly, the whispers that fill her ears and wispy images that fill her eyes are _Allison-Carolina-concerns-home-loss-child-Allison? Allison? Allison?_ Her mother’s face slips across her eyes, again and again. 

It’s tinted yellow as Eta shows her leaving; blue as Iota shows her returning; blue as she smiles; yellow as a flag is folded over her casket; blue as she braids her hair, carefully showing Carolina the movements she’s using; yellow as Carolina is grounded, anger in her eyes; blue and yellow and blue and yellow and blue yellow blue yellow blue _yellowblueyellowblueyellow—_

And then it all splits apart, and she’s standing at the table with her cousins, awkwardly reciting the questions of Passover. _Oh,_ says _blue-yellow-nevergreen._

The time rushes, fast-forwarding through the dinner, but now she’s a teenager, having a Seder with a couple of kids who she met at the Jewish Student Union. Her dad hadn’t even noticed her going. 

They’re singing Dayenu, and the boy next to her has a piece of paper with the lyrics that both of them read off of awkwardly. They’re blurry in her mind’s eye, but Eta starts to hum, and then Iota is singing, and between the two of them it works out fairly well.

They pull her from one remembered Seder to the next, pulling loose the fragments that had stood out most, until all of the sudden she’s five years old, and her mother is smiling in encouragement as she says, “Why, on this night, only matzah?” and then it’s gone, her world flying into _blueyellow_ all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and feedback is definitely welcome


End file.
